


Standing Eight

by Morgan Steelgrave (m_steelgrave)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Genderswap, girl!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_steelgrave/pseuds/Morgan%20Steelgrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gives her a patronizing look.  "Insecurity is a waste of time, Lestrade."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing Eight

"It isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out, it's the pebble in your shoe."  
Muhammad Ali

* * *

The string of grisly murders in the London club scene proves to be a challenge for even Sherlock's deductive skills, and it is a week before the consulting detective works out who is behind them. It is a week of little to no sleep, sporadic meals from the vending machine, terrible (usually cold) coffee, and trying valiantly to keep up with Sherlock Holmes, who refuses to keep Gillian Lestrade in the loop even when he runs off after an armed drug dealer. Pretty par for the course, really, and she thinks that if Sherlock gets himself shot, he'll deserve it. By the time they catch up with the consulting detective and his quarry, she has graduated from the normal feelings of frustration to something much uglier. Gillian thinks she might have taken her frustration out on the suspect to the point of near-abuse, but Donovan doesn't say anything and John seems jealous that he hadn't had a chance to chip in, so she shrugs it off and resigns herself to the stiff shoulders and hands she knows will plague her for the next day or two.

By the time she finishes taking statements from Sherlock and John and begins the slow process of excavating her way through the piles of paperwork on her desk, she's been more or less awake for three days straight. She pauses when she unearths the official Met promotion information package at the bottom of the stack. There is a post-it note bearing the words, "Think about it," in DCS Thornton's spiky scrawl. She is tired and irritated enough that if she doesn't walk away from it _right now_ , she'll leave it on the superintendent's desk with a note telling him where to stick it and wash her hands of the whole mess. Instead she leaves the envelope right where it is, grabs her coat and her purse, and makes a beeline for the door before anyone else can stall her.

When she finally makes it back to her flat, she takes the longest and most satisfying shower she's had in recent memory, pulls on something comfortable and sprawls on the sofa with two fingers of whisky, fully intending to remain there until morning. _Hamish MacBeth_ is on, and Gillian is caught somewhere between grumbling that a real detective inspector never has it that easy, and feeling slightly wistful that there might really be such a place where she could do her job without the piles of paperwork and press conferences and Anderson yammering and Sherlock swooping about.

Over the muted sounds of the television, she hears the unmistakable clicking noise of the lock on her front door being picked. Of course, she thinks with a sigh. "Just bloody well knock, Sherlock," she calls out without even getting up off the sofa. There is the sound of the door opening, then closing, and then Sherlock hovers in the doorway like a very pouty thundercloud.

"I have made considerable progress on the Paddington robberies," he announces.

Gillian raises her glass in his direction. "Congratulations."

"Don't you want to know--?"

"Not my case, Sherlock."

His brow furrows in annoyance. "Why not?"

"Because," she sits up and leans her elbows on her knees, wincing at the pull of already-stiff muscles. "I have been up three days running. I've just closed a case--with your considerable help, thank you for that--and I have approximately forty-eight hours of down time before I'm due back at the Yard. Probably more like thirty-six, because I will readily agree with you that some of my staff are not the brightest and I'll be called in to fix something that's gone wrong. So I plan on making the most of my thirty-six hours by staying right here."

"But that's so dull," says Sherlock in a tone that is precariously close to a whine. She sees him catalogue her damp hair and worn-out clothes and finds she's too tired to care that he knows the shirt came from the boxing club at Hendon or that the jog pants hang low on her hipbones because they belonged to that paramedic she'd dated, what, four years ago? Four years. Jesus. Really, she's too tired to deal with this. Too tired and too old. She just wants an evening to herself, where she can turn off her brain and her responsibilities and just exist without having to take up the slack for everyone else. Aloud, she says, "I'm glad you have another case, Sherlock. Heaven forbid you get bored, but go talk to Dimmock. It's his case."

Sherlock's scowl deepens and he flops down next to her on the sofa. "Dimmock," he pronounces as if the word offends his sensibilities to the core, "is an idiot."

Sherlock always serves to remind Gillian why she'd decided against children. "Is not. You just don't like him because the two of you don't play well together. He doesn't quite know what to do with you, but that doesn't make him an idiot. It makes him--"

"Not you," Sherlock says.

Gillian blinks. That is probably the closest thing she will ever get to a compliment from Sherlock Holmes. "Did Dimmock ask for your help with the robberies?"

He rolls his eyes. "Of course not. He shouldn't even need my help, the whole thing is just so obvious."

"Then why are you even bothering with it?"

"Because I didn't have anything better to do," he says, "and John is out."

"Smart man," says Gillian. She finishes the last of her whisky and sets the glass on the table. She can still feel Sherlock's uncanny eyes on her.

"I should not have missed that," he says, half to himself. She turns to look at him over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow at the apparent change of subject. He makes an exasperated noise before continuing, "Your shirt. I knew it was issued to the Hendon boxing club during the time you attended, but I'd theorized it belonged to someone else. A trophy from a _relationship_ , perhaps."

She ignores his sneer. "A reasonable assumption," she replies.

"I do not assume," he says. "It would have fit the pattern. There are chemical stains on the jog pants consistent with those common to someone working in the medical profession. Based on your dedication to your job, it had to be someone with whom you would have had ample opportunity to interact, most likely a paramedic or Emergency Care Practitioner. It appears you preferred his clothing to his company."

Suppressing a smile, Gillian nods once. "And you deduced that because the jog pants had such a history, the shirt must, as well."

"It is a men's shirt."

"I was the first woman to join the boxing club. They didn't issue the shirts in women's sizes back then. What told you it was mine?"

"You had excellent form when subduing the suspect earlier today," says Sherlock. "And your initials are written on the tag, which is visible."

This time, Gillian does smile. "Okay, out with it," she says. Sherlock looks puzzled, which she decides was a good look for him, the bastard. "That's twice now you've complimented me within ten minutes. What do you want?"

The look on Sherlock's face shifts from confusion to evasion. "Any compliments were completely unintentional," he says with a sniff.

"What is this about, Sherlock?"

He narrows his eyes and she can see him weighing his options. He hadn't expected her to catch on as quickly as she did, and she thinks, score one for the Met. Finally he says, "When John and I came by this afternoon to give our statements, I noticed a packet of papers on your desk detailing the possibility of promotion within the Metropolitan Police Force. There was a personal note from DCS Thornton attached."

How the hell had he spotted that one envelope at the bottom of the mound of papers? "And?"

"You are not considering it."

It isn't a question. Gillian decides against voicing any of the half-dozen or so flippant or sarcastic replies on her tongue. Instead she shrugs. "I might be."

"Don't be stupid." The last time she saw Sherlock look quite so appalled was when he first deduced the nature of Donovan's relationship with Anderson.

"I thought I was being rather practical and thinking of my career," she says. "I've been DI long enough now that it's understandable they'd be considering me for promotion to DCI."

"Boring and stupid. You dislike paperwork intensely, and the amount of it would triple if you took that position."

"True, but the amount of time spent in the field would be reduced considerably. I'd have more time to deal with all the bureaucracy. And maybe," she pauses, thinking back to running after Sherlock and the suspect, fighting the stitch in her side and the burning in her lungs, "maybe it's time I cut back on the field work."

"But you can't!" Sherlock's vehemence itself wasn't all that unusual, it was just that Gillian couldn't recall having been the subject of it before. It was flattering and not a little bit scary. "You'd be transferred. I don't want to break in another incompetent detective inspector."

She drops her head and grips the back of her skull with both hands, willing herself not to hit him. "I see. You've just housebroken your dog, you don't want to start all over again with a new puppy."

"Don't be absurd," he says. "You are not a dog."

And that's it, this conversation has gone far enough. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," she says, sitting up to to glare at him. "I am not a dog, nor am I your mother or your babysitter. I'm sure this must be completely foreign territory to you, being the genius consulting detective and all, but some of us had to fight fucking hard to get where we are. Some of us aren't self-employed, taking whatever cases we find interesting. Some of us aren't as young as we used to be, and as much fun as this has been, maybe it's time to come to terms with the fact that we can't do everything we once could and we should be put out to pasture in a sea of paperwork."

She is aware that her voice has risen to the volume she usually reserves for stubborn suspects or good employees who make stupid errors. She doesn't particularly care.

Sherlock gives her a patronizing look. "Insecurity is a waste of time, Lestrade."

"I'm too old for this shit," she announces. She manages to stand before Sherlock's unnaturally long fingers circle her wrist.

"Wrong," he says. She considers him, searching for any sign of the usual smugness that accompany that word. She finds none. After a moment, she allows Sherlock to pull her back down next to him on the sofa. Sherlock sighs, sounding extremely put-upon. "Do I really have to explain this to you?" When she says nothing, he begins ticking points off on his fingers. "Your assumption that you are no longer fit for your job is not based on sound evidence. Granted, the standard to which you are held by the department is woefully low, but you hold yourself to a much more rigorous standard that is at times unrealistic."

She opens her mouth to argue with him, but he ploughs right over her. "You believe yourself physically unable to complete your assigned tasks. As demonstrated today, you are more than capable of tracking and subduing suspects. Of course, you are rather short, but that has not impeded your progress thus far. You quit smoking one week after I did, which means you are still suffering from some of its ill effects. John assures me these will decrease with time and continued physical activity. Seeing as there is no shortage of criminals to chase, I do not foresee this to be a problem.

"Next we come to your preoccupation with your age. This has little to no root in personal vanity, as you make no attempt to dye your hair or otherwise hide any physical signs of aging. You believe they communicate experience and authority, and this is correct. Therefore, your belief that you are 'too old' stems from concern that you are unable to continue in your current position. As previously stated, you more than meet the physical standards of the job, so I really do not see what age has to do with it."

"I suppose not," she admits. She feels as if she she's landed in some sort of alternate dimension, where Sherlock Holmes uses his powers for good without the nasty antisocial side effects.

"Is this another one of those unfounded societal standards particular to women? What is it like to have those constantly niggling in the back of your brain?" he mutters, looking heavenwards.

Spoke too soon, she thinks with a rueful smile. "I'm not pursuing the promotion, Sherlock. I like my team, I like what I do. I'd like to do it as long as they'll let me." After a moment, she adds, "Thanks, though. I don't...well, just thanks."

Sherlock snorts. It sounds both impatient and pleased. "Now that we've wasted an unnecessary amount of time stroking your ego, may we discuss the Paddington robberies?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "No, we may not. You may text Dimmock about it, and I'll make sure he follows up on your information. I am going to bed, and in the morning I plan on going to the gym and beating a punching bag into submission. If you're bored, you might come along."

His gaze is calculating. "I did not know you were aware that I boxed, as well."

"You're not the only one who can spot good form," she says, "though you're a bit sloppy. You could stand some practice, if you plan to continue provoking people into punching you."

"Such an arrangement might be mutually beneficial," he says. "John would approve of any activity that does not involve shooting the walls of our flat."

"Or body parts in the kitchen?"

"Indeed. I shall see you tomorrow, then." He stands with a flourish and pauses in the doorway to add, "Please be advised, I do not intend to pull any punches, as it were."

"Why start now?" she calls after him, but she knows he's already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> In boxing, a standing eight count occurs when the referee stops the fight and counts to eight. During this time the referee will determine if the boxer can continue.
> 
> The Lestrade in my head looks like Audrey Tautou with a Jennifer Beals edge.
> 
> Thanks to kaitou1412 for giving this a second set of eyes.


End file.
